by Josh Samman
I attempted not to stare too distantly into the next universe. I tried to focus on matching the faces of those I hadn’t yet met to the stories I’d heard from Isabel about her family. Everyone has favorites, she used to say. Aunt Jo was one I’d heard about often, and was leading the meeting, with help from Landon’s wife, Savannah, and Beth.
Isabel lost control of her vehicle in the rain, she explained, and had hydroplaned off the road into a tree. She felt it important for us to know that she was wearing her seatbelt, and tested negative for drugs and alcohol.
“What time did they police arrive at the accident?” It was the first thing I asked, and the only thing on my mind.
She looked at the papers… “8:41.” I’m not sure if she realized why I was asking, or the implication an exact timeline provided. I immediately took my phone out. I should’ve waited. I simply couldn’t. I had to know.
8:36, the last text I’d gotten from her.
This was the next passage in the worst moment of my life chronicles. The tragedy wasn’t enough. It had to be layered with mountains of immense guilt. The powers that be had found the chink in my armor, and used it to pierce my soul to the core, not taking any pity, twisting and turning the knife in every way, until I was completely hollow.
I’d killed the thing I loved the most, the person I claimed to be my sun and moon. I’d promised her I would take care of her, and I failed, miserably. I couldn’t have possibly failed any worse. I wanted to run out of the room and find the nearest tree to hang myself from. Those in the room who were paying any attention may have gathered the clues of what I’d just discovered. My face melted into my hands, and the whole world closed in around me.
Finally, Beth presented the question of who was going to speak at the funeral. Pastor Fran, whom Isabel had grown her whole life with, would speak. More were still needed to correctly celebrate her life, she said.
I waited for someone to say something, anything. All of us were shell-shocked, I’m not sure half of them even heard the question. It was the only thing I did hear, coming back from replaying the course of text messages back through my head.
“I'll do it,” I said after a few moments of silence. My voice cracked as I tried to muster the courage to clear my throat and try again. “I’ll speak.”
The room looked around at each other, everyone waiting for someone else to give the first response. Finally, Aunt Jo spoke up.
“Okay, Josh. I think that would be good. Just send what you’d like to say to Beth and maybe she could print it out for you?” She wanted someone to vet what was being said. I didn’t blame her. Anna was the only other to volunteer.
They discussed what the obituary would read, how they were to sum her up in a few short sentences. God first, mother and father, family, then lover. What a privilege, I remember thinking, to be included. Honored and mortified are two strange feelings to feel at once, for what it was we were having to do.
We wrapped up the rest of the formalities before hugging one another and going back to our own grieving places. Cathy suggested that I come visit, with just her and Dallas. Isabel’s uncle and Dallas were neighbors, and I agreed to go. I wanted to, I was just terrified to have my first full conversation with the man who made Isabel. He was the one I’d made an unspoken agreement with to take care of her, and I’d let her slip through my fingers. I walked over to the house Isabel grew up in, the house I’d dropped her off at dozens of times, but was never allowed to enter.
Who Dallas was meeting at this point wasn’t the man his daughter loved, or anything close. I was a shell of a human. I’d never felt so worthless and broken. I was the saddest man on Earth, I thought, and believed it, until I got there, and saw Dallas staring blankly across the kitchen. The room was dark, his hands fixed on the counter, eyes glaring at the dining room table where Cathy was sitting. She motioned for me to sit with her.
What were the details of the trip? Why didn’t she ride with Matt as planned? What were some of the last things said? What were the final things she did? She asked all the questions, while he stood, still as water, gaze broken only to pick up his can of beer and take a long gulp. We all had our medicine.
I was having a hard time gathering my thoughts, let alone answering questions. I remember thinking how awful it was that this was Dallas’ first impression of me. It was impossible to not feel like the bane of his existence. I told them we were texting. Cathy claimed they didn’t think the accident was from that. They hadn’t even gotten her phone yet, and I was being protected.
Finally, Dallas came to join us at the table. He remained quiet as he pulled out his bible. “I want to read you some words, Josh.” He spoke slowly and softly, every bit the wise man I’d envisioned, just how she’d described him. He licked his fingers a bit to find the page and verse he was looking for.
I don’t have a clue what he read to me. I’d pay any amount of money now to know what it was he shared at that moment. I wish so badly that I remembered, or had written down the verses. Instead, I nodded, and tried my hardest to find the right words to say back.
“I hurt like you hurt,” I told him finally.
I have hundreds of regrets since August 30th, 2013, thousands of them, but of every mistake I’ve made since that date, this is the one I regret the most. I don’t know why, but it haunts me, the memory of telling Dallas that I knew how he felt. I had no earthly idea how he felt, just like I expected no one to know how I felt. Every day I want so badly to go back and choose different words to say to him. I was only trying to convey that I, too, had lost my favorite person in the world.
She was my favorite person to do everything with. To dance with, to cook for, to cuddle with, and kiss on, to discuss ideas and plans for the future. She was my favorite person to argue with, and to be crazy about. My life felt instantly devalued, drastically. I’d the won the soulmate lottery, only to have my ticket fly out the window on I-75 on the way to cash it.
There wasn’t much left to say, and I returned to Stephanie and Owen’s for the final night before I felt it was time to burden someone else with the black cloud over my head. As I went to sleep, I remember being so afraid of what I’d signed up for, to speak at her funeral. I recall looking up fatal doses of alprazolam, to make sure I didn’t die before completing my task at hand, to see just how far I could actually escape without teetering over the edge.
It was a tremendous responsibility. I didn’t know how on Earth I was supposed to sum her up with words, without being reductive or diminishing. The undertaking was massive, but with it came objective, and objective kept me alive. If only for a few days, I again had purpose.
88.
I’d relocated to an extra bedroom in Lance’s house. It was better than the couch at Stephanie’s but made the mornings no less difficult. My life had been spun on its axis; my wildest dreams into worst nightmares, and I was reminded of it at the start of every day. It was the first thing I thought of as I opened my eyes, and I wondered if it would be like this forever.
My best friend, soulmate, motivation, inspiration, it all had been stolen from me, and it was time to say our final farewell. I was longing to see her once more, but now that the day had come, I was terrified. I asked Beth if she was sure it was a good idea. She told me I’d regret it if I didn’t.
Isabel’s mom asked if I wanted to go with her to see her daughter. We’d grow to rely on each other in the months ahead. This was just the beginning.
The funeral home was owned by a member of Dallas’ family and bore the surname. We arrived at Monroe Funeral Home, and it took quite some time before I could bring myself to go inside. When we did, Beth was waiting. She warned us that Isabel wouldn’t look as she did before, and that was natural. She told us to take our time.
I walked in first and saw the casket at the end of the room. It was open, but not to where I could see her from the entrance. I had to get closer. I knew what was in there. Sue was already crying behind me. I inched forward. There was a part of me that futilely
told myself that it would be someone else in that casket, that this was still all a big misunderstanding.
Maybe that’s why Beth said she’d look different. Maybe it’s not her.
I was beginning to lose my mind.
Finally, there she was. It was her, but it wasn’t. No flaring dimples, no impish grin, nothing that I remembered her by, when picturing her in my mind. She would sometimes make faces in her sleep as she dreamt, but now there was nothing.
She wore a tie-dye t-shirt and jeans, chosen by Anna, foregoing formality in the name of memorializing a teenage Isabel maybe. Gone already was the summer tan she’d earned with countless days at Hollywood Beach. Instead, she was pale gray, with more makeup than she’d ever wore while alive.
I sat in the chair next to the casket and let Sue approach first. She spoke to her daughter, in between an overflow of tears. Finally, she came back and sat down, clutching me, crying. It was my turn.
I drug myself to the casket. I don’t remember if I said anything, or what I said if I did. Time went back to slow motion, the ringing in my head returned. The outside world darkened and disoriented itself, closing in and out of tunnel vision.
I touched her. It was the last time I ever would, and the idea made me want to stay there forever. I could stay until the funeral maybe, not leave her side like she hadn’t mine in the hospital. I put my hands on hers. They were just as cold as they were that night at Pockets, where this whole thing started again. I asked Sue and Beth for a moment alone. They stepped out, and the barrage of tears really began.
How did we get here? What did we do to deserve this?
I was still thinking we. There was no more Josh and Isabel. No more we. It was me, and only me.
I put my hands on her face and ran my fingers through her hair one last time. I gave her a kiss on the forehead, and a final one on cold, hard lips. There was no warmth or passion to them, nothing that embodied the person who’d once been on the other side. This was truly the stuff nightmares were made of.
I wanted out of my body. I wanted so badly to not be there, to be wherever it was she’d gone. The best I could do was leave the room. I did, and Beth told me I could come back later in the day if I needed to.
I wouldn’t be going back. I went to the local tattoo parlor and had my childhood friend from Christian summer camp tattoo her initials on my ribcage, right below my heart. If I did make it through this, I wanted a scar to show for it. More than anything, I wanted to remember how strongly I felt, how passionate she made me, as the realization that every day was a step further away from that. Sue joined me, and got a replica of Isabel’s Believe tattoo on her wrist. We were all doing what we could to survive.
I retreated back to Lance’s house to prepare for the memorial the following day. I’d already sedated myself before getting tattooed earlier, and was in the process of dosing back into comatose when I realized Isabel hadn’t packed me anything to wear to her own funeral.
Is this real?
I stumbled back to my car to drive to the mall before Lance stopped me.
“Where you going, cowboy?”
“I gotta go. Clothes.” I slurred as I talked, pointing at an invisible jacket. I was beyond coherence. He knew what I meant, or would gather it soon.
“Give me a second. We’ll load up.” I had no argue in me, every word was exhausting.
We got to the mall, and I wandered aimlessly. I was in a daze, successfully forgetting what it was I was there for. Lance dragged me through it. I felt like I was getting pulled around by everyone at this time, holding my hand through these steps as I rendered myself useless.
I guess I’d felt it appropriate to pick out a black suit, shirt, and tie, because I remember feeling very out of place when we arrived at the funeral home the next day. I saw the family outside waiting, dressed in khakis and sports coats, with white shirts, and dark Costa sunglasses.
Nice Johnny Cash impression, asshole.
I looked down at my odometer before getting out of the car. 200,000 miles, on the dot, and of course it was. Everything was a cruel joke at this point.
We’d be traveling as a group from the funeral home to the burial site. Once everyone arrived, the immediate family got in the arranged limousines, while some of them walked to their cars to drive themselves. I didn’t know what to do. Matt and I walked towards my car to drive on our own.
“Josh, you guys are riding with them,” Beth said, pointing to the vehicle holding Owen, Stephanie, Wyatt, and his fiancée.
“I.. Uhh.. Are you sure?”
“Get in the car, Josh.” She was trying to be polite. The tone in her voice said “For fuck’s sake, today isn’t easy on me either. Please don’t make this harder.”
We got in with the four of them and began the drive towards the cemetery. Owen and Stephanie had gone to the scene of the accident the day prior, to go through the wreckage for anything worth keeping. I don’t know how they did it.
Stephanie handed me Isabel’s phone. If they’d had it, they knew what I knew, that I was the last person to talk to her, and at what time. It was eating me alive, thinking I may have been the only person to know what happened. I wanted to bring it up somehow, to tell them why I felt so guilty. I wondered who else knew, who was keeping it, or sharing it, with each other.
Wyatt and Owen were both silent for the ride. Wyatt had gotten engaged and lost his sister within the same 48 hours. Owen had his own demons. The drive was short, and within a few minutes, we arrived at a large tent pitched over a gravesite.
We got out and walked towards the rows of chairs set up in front of a large hole dug for the coffin. A feeling of horror washed over me as we got closer, and I realized the casket was still in the hearse. We’d been told that it would be ready to be set into the ground, that none of us would have the burden of carrying her there.
One by one, all of us recognized what had happened, and what we had to do. I grabbed one side with Matt and Isabel’s cousin while the brothers lifted the other. It was so much heavier than I thought it’d be. I looked at Matt, realizing he’d gone from being the best man in our wedding to a pallbearer at her funeral. I felt nauseous. This was not how it was supposed to be.
We placed the coffin on the crank-operated shaft that would lower her. I took a seat at the end and closed out the world around me, as I tried my best to hold the vomit in the pit of my stomach.
Don’t throw up right now. Do not fucking throw up.
I failed, and my mouth filled with the acidic bile that had been waiting for the worst imaginable time to come out. I swallowed it, and tried to fight the sensation of it moving its way back upward. I threw up again, and gulped down one last time before it came back up immediately. I spit it on the ground next to me as quietly as I could.
I’d never been more mortified in my life. I remember thinking what a foul, vile person her family must have thought I was, sitting here at their daughter’s burial, spitting on the ground of a cemetery. It still makes me sick, thinking of it now.
One of Isabel’s closest friends from church played a hymn on his guitar as I tried to slow the spinning in my head. I wondered how he had such poise and composure. Further and further I slipped.
If I had any more of the old Josh Samman in me, this was the moment he withered and died. Gone was confidence and charisma. I’d been replaced by something else. I didn’t know what I’d become, but it was hideous.
89.
“I carry death in my left pocket. Sometimes I take it out and talk to it: "Hello, baby, how you doing? When you coming for me? I'll be ready.”
-Charles Bukowski
I was headed northbound on I-75. It was raining, and I was checking each mile marker, looking for 431. I hadn’t yet found the crash site, but I had plans for when I did. Up and up the numbers went. 429…
Faster.
430…
You’re not going fast enough, Josh.
431. Finally, I found it. I steered off the road and aimed for the tree with the black
Honda Civic wreckage around it. I floated through the air towards the impact zone.
This was easier than I thought.
I woke up, naked, in a pile of my own vomit. The sheets had been torn off the bed, remnants of a broken liquor bottle on the ground. Pills were strewn about the room. There was a pistol on the pillow next to me.
This won’t hurt a bit.
I could feel my mental health deteriorating rapidly. The feeling of wanting to die wasn’t subsiding. It was getting stronger. Sleep had once held the capacity to remove me from the immediate realm, but I was no longer able to escape into slumber. She’d learned to follow me there.
Just let her come back.
I bargained in my dreams.
I don’t care about getting sick.
Taking a person and traumatizing the shit out of them can make them act strangely. I just wanted to know when the fucking crying was going to stop. I couldn’t close my eyes without seeing her smile burning the back of my eyelids. I was scared to shut them, scared of my own thoughts. I couldn’t discern between sleep and wake. Night terrors and reality mixed, blurred, melted into one another.
You killed the one you claimed to love most.
I was beginning to have hallucinations, visual and auditory. The face of every girl I saw melted into Isabel’s, memories too. Come closer, I could still hear her say, cuddle up. I had visions of her on her tippy toes, arms draped around my neck. You’ll miss these kisses, she whispers.
How did she know? How could she have known?
She would wake me with a phone call in my dreams before visiting. The number on the caller ID dictated which her I got. 509-5243 meant I got Izzi, feigning innocence, telling me how she felt only when no one was watching. She was out of reach, distant, toying with me. I ask her if it’s real this time or just another dream. What do you think? She says, over a table of wasabi and sake.